Nocturne
by Kate Christie
Summary: If it were possible for time to stop, for the earth to pause in its spinning, it would happen for them on this night. The hours between "Always" and "After the Storm." Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Nocturne Chapter One**

"_**You can't see me yet, seeing takes a long, long time.  
From the outside in, measuring each shift and sound."**_

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, 2012 Rounder Records  
No copyright infringement intended.**

Oh God.

This is Kate's hand, clasped gently, palm-to-palm with his. This is the taste of Kate's mouth lingering on his lips. This is the scent of her rain-drenched hair tickling his nose.

And this isn't just Kate that appeared at his door and threw herself into his arms, at his mercy, begged forgiveness for everything she's said and not said, done and not done in four years of holding back.

This is _his_ Kate. _His._

He just had his hands on her body. His lips on her skin. His tongue inside her mouth—he can't even fathom the meaning, the magnitude—Possession, primal and fierce, sings through his veins.

Nothing, no over-wrought fantasy or half-lived dream, could have prepared him for the onslaught of this woman's voice and lips and body. Every nerve is firing, blood vessels pounding, heart beating out a steady pulse of "want" and "now" and "Kate."

The sound of her breath catching at his touch is on swirling repeat inside his head, and all he can think about is how badly he needs to evoke that exact noise again with no clothes or apologies or tears between them.

He turns to follow her, lets her lead, still afraid he's going to wake up, break the tenuous, gossamer spell.

Two steps into his living room and a bright blue flash floods the loft, followed immediately by a boom that rattles the windows. And then silent darkness falls.

In mid-stride, his chest collides with a now stock-still Kate, knocking them both off balance and forcing him to release her hand, clutch at her waist to keep from toppling her.

She's changed in that instant from the pliant, bending, giving, clutching woman he kissed against his door into a tightly-wound spring. He tries to soothe, works his hands over her ribcage to gentle her again, a vain attempt to get them back to that precious, impossible place where they were only a second before.

But she's caught, stiff and icy, by the flash and bang. The bubble has burst, and he fears there's no returning now.

Seconds stretch out in his perception, but finally he feels her take a steadying breath in, give a slow exhale.

He takes that as his cue to break the unsteady silence, schools his voice, keeps it quiet and close to her ear, reaches awkwardly for words to let her settle herself, to allow her to escape the moment, or the whole encounter, with dignity.

"I have candles in my office. Maybe a flashlight. It shouldn't be out for too long. There's a generator in the basement."

He is still pressed to her back, the chill from her damp shirt seeping in past his own. He tries a little nudge, not wanting to let go, so afraid she will want him to.

Pulling forward, but not away, she steps toward the office, letting him keep his hands on her.

"Candles could be good."

There is an unmistakable hint of a smile in her voice, and he thinks that maybe he's underestimated her recovery, underestimated the determination, the purpose and intent that went into what he feared was a whim.

Her hands cover his where they are still wrapped at the narrow of her waist, and he feels her chilled fingers insinuate themselves between his. She tugs them away from her body, and his heart starts to sink, thinking she's disentangling after all. But then her shoulders shrug, and she's pulling his arms tighter, wrapping herself up in him like a cloak. Joy wells up once again, buoys fragile, fluttering muscle. His chin aligns with her temple as he crowds over her shoulder, giving him a view of her upturned lips when she speaks again.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you orchestrated this power outage."

Eyes upturned and sparking, she brushes her cheek to his, seems to be waiting for the banter, so he gives it to her.

"You got me."

She reads the depth behind it, and for once chooses to return it.

"I know."

Tugging his hands out again, she lets go of one and turns to face him. As she backs through the door into his office, she takes it up again and pulls him after her with eyes at once clear and unfathomable.

"And now you've got me, too."

His heart takes a slow turn in his chest, radiating warmth, filling his chest, spilling to his limbs, freezing his brain.

This is real. She isn't leaving. She isn't running or teasing or taking the out he's offered. She is walking into his office, edging backward toward his bedroom. Leading him to his own wildest dreams.

He isn't stopping for candles.

The look on his face must betray every thought in his head, because her lips curve up in a grin that drips with desire and decision.

Blue flashes again between them, the light stark and cold, but this time, she doesn't flinch when thunder claps; she lunges.

Arms around his neck, hard slick body pressed tightly to his, lips sealing and tongue sliding.

There isn't room for air between them. But he's fine with that—who needs air when he finally has _her_? Her mouth and skin and waist and hips and ribcage and _god_ he will never get enough. Now that he knows what it is to hold all of this, touch it, dwell within it, he can't go back.

Her tongue is working its way along his lips, tracing the seam with barely-there pressure, just enough to light every nerve ablaze, bring his whole focus down to that one tiny stretch of slippery contact.

When he parts for her, lets her inside again, she dives deep, dances along his palate, traces the ridge at the roof of his mouth, swirls down and tangles with him, hums her approval as he surges inside her mouth.

The taste of her—dark and sweet and lush—hasn't changed since that first time, so long ago now. Synapses of memory that have lain dormant for more than a year stir and ignite. Dreams have let him relive the one time she allowed this to happen before tonight. But those fleeting flashbacks coupled with figments of imagination do not compare to this.

He has gotten distracted from his purpose, lost in this kiss, but she takes a step back, wobbles and starts to lose her footing. Her misstep reminds him where this is supposed to be going, and he reaches down, catches her, grabs her hips, hauls her up in the air.

She lets out a squeak into his mouth, but she spreads her legs for him and wraps them around his waist, squeezing tight to find purchase. Wasting no time, he carries her toward his bed, still embroiled in the battle with her lips and teeth and tongue.

The new angle puts her above him, and she palms his cheeks with her still-icy hands to gentle him. A fluttering, shaky breath washes across his skin, and now that he has her wrapped around him, he feels the rest of her trembling, too. Knowing this is having the same nerve-rattling effect on her makes him bolder, and his palm finds the swath of skin just above the waist of her jeans, slides up under her shirt.

Why are there still clothes? Impatience roils up, spurs him on. He wants his skin against hers, as if that might put out the fire of burning bliss in his veins rather than ratchet it up to a full inferno.

His knees hit the edge of his mattress and he lets her go, tries to slide her down to his bed, but she won't release him, pulls him down with her until all his weight is falling against her, pressing her into the soft covers with his hard planes and angles.

This is gravity. This is the force of the universe finally pulling him to her, giving into the inevitable merging.

He needs his hands. He can't free them from underneath her fast enough, grunts out his frustration into her seeking, pulsing mouth.

Finally free, his fingers unfasten the last of her buttons, and he drags himself from that blaze inside her mouth to taste all the skin he's finally revealed.

She whimpers when he finds her belly button with his tongue, tracing a taut circle around the edge before dipping just inside. He can see her eyes, open and on him as he tastes her, catalogues every flavor, every texture. The edge of her ribcage, the flat expanse of her stomach. He's mesmerized by what he still can't see—has to reveal all of her, hot and hard underneath him.

Her hands haven't been idle. She's gotten his shirt undone, fingers tremulous but sure, clasping at the material, trying to shove it over his shoulders. He gives in—shrugs out of it before she can rip it from him. But then he's at his purpose again—finding skin. All the skin.

The irony of this moment hits him again. She wants him to peel away the layers. Maybe she always has. But now she's letting herself, letting him.

Her zipper is down, button undone and she's lifting her hips, letting him drag the cool, rain-drenched fabric down her legs. It's stuck over her boots, and he curses at the hindrance to nakedness. He hears her huff out a breath and finds her propped up on her elbows watching him struggle with her footwear.

Despite the fact that she's the one laid out on his bed, down to her underwear, flushed and mussed and still half-drowned, she has a smug little grin curling at one side of her kiss-swollen, pink lips. He glares at her and growls as the second boot finally releases, and then her pants are off—finally off. She's still watching him as he shucks off his own pants, slightly off balance and giddy with the same adrenaline that has her muscles jumping.

And then he's climbing up her body, making delicious contact with every possible point, shivering as heat meets cold at every inch. He realizes suddenly that she must be freezing, but he can't bring himself to break contact with all this glorious naked Kateness to drag them under sheets and blankets, so he covers her with his own warmth, wraps himself around her, tries to pull her inside his own skin.

His face is hovering above her when blue flashes again, lighting her eyes, black but for slivers of green barely visible in the near-dark. He's worked his hands up to cup her shoulder blades, and he lifts her up now, cradles her to his chest and breathes.

She's nearly naked in his arms, beneath him in his bed, not only allowing him to touch her, but wanting him to, and he thinks he might cry as the realization swamps him that all of this is _happening_ and _real_ and _not_ one of his arsenal of taunting, teasing dreams.

So he holds her, holds on to her with everything he has, and breathes her in, imprinting the feel and taste and smell of her on his body, his mind, his heart, until every part of him is filled with her, surrounded by her, infused with her essence.

She's speaking, soft and slow against his skin, whispered words spilling out, and he hears but can't quite absorb the meaning.

He loosens his grip, lays her head and shoulders back gently on the bed, sees through the watery lens of unshed tears that she's smiling up at him.

"No more waiting, Castle."

Oh, but this is worth the wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Nocturne Chapter Two**

"_**But as you let your eyes adjust to the darkness deep within,  
Sifting through the ash and dust, we are the places that we've been."**_

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, 2012 Rounder Records  
No copyright infringement intended.**

**Songs I listened to while writing: see my twitter or tumblr or this link on youtube**

**Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**

The heat of his body is pressing her into the bed, but somehow she's still shivering.

It's the adrenaline; she knows that edgy crest of anticipation. But the last time she felt it in bed was, well it was the night she lost her virginity.

Nerve endings that jitter, buzz, refuse to quiet—these are the pent up product of four years of saving up, staving off, delaying, denying.

She's just told him she doesn't want to wait, and she can't understand how the words made it out of her mouth without a hiccough or a stutter. Her teeth are going to start chattering at any moment.

But he's pinning her, making delicious contact with so much skin. Not enough skin. She wants him to touch every quivering inch of skin.

His face is hovering, frozen over hers, eyes already dark and swimming, but turning impossibly darker as her words filter through the haze.

Those eyes have always seen her for what she is, so she doesn't doubt they are finding the lust and the hunger and the nerves swirling together into a wave of exquisite clarity. Nothing has ever felt so utterly right in the universe as their bodies pressed together, their breath mingling, their lips melding.

She thinks of all the ways she's seen these eyes in four years, and she can't help the tiny curve of her lips upward. Earlier today, she thought she might never see them again, but here she is, her whole self reflected back in their depths, both lost and found.

His look changes, begins to thaw with her smile.

Firm, steady hands slide under her to the center of her back, and she arches up to give him access where he needs it. The clasp of her bra releases and he slides his knees up on either side of her hips to straddle her lap, take the weight off his hands, off her body.

As he slips the straps gently forward, off her shoulders, down her arms, the feather-light touch brings to life every nerve. And then he's sliding the lingerie away, laying it off to the side so delicately, hesitantly sweeping his eyes down to see her.

Her nipples are already peaking from the cold, from her arousal, but his hands are limp on his knees. His eyes are riveted on the rise and fall of her chest with each ragged breath, but he isn't touching her. She can't read if this is fear or awe or his own nerves, but it needs to stop. Her hands come to rest over his, squeeze gently, slide down to stroke the wiry hair dusting his thighs. When she finds her voice again, it's gruff and a full octave deeper than she remembers.

"I want your hands on me."

Blinking once, slowly, he meets her eyes and does as she asks. His fingers trail up past her waist, find her scar on the left, pause briefly there to demarcate the curve and splay of it, takes it in with fingertips but not eyes, silently acknowledges how lucky...

When his thumbs brush the outer swell of her breasts, the tendrils of tenuous want coiled in her chest finally begin to uncurl and she sighs out a breath.

Her reaction makes him bolder, and his thumbs skirt the curves of supple flesh, almost where she needs them. But then he cups her, presses up and in with his warm, wide palms, and lets the heat soak in through her skin.

She arches involuntarily into his touch, curving up like a cat, stretching the tight muscles of her back and shoulders. Oh, she could almost purr. The only things anchoring her to earth are her nails gripping his thighs. He's just holding her breasts and every cell in her body is singing. Holy God, what will she do when he's inside her?

Her eyes shoot open when he rolls one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she's just in time to see him lean in and take the other between his lips. His tongue is flattened against her, and her hips are bucking off the bed in gorgeous frustration, and then he's suckling, and his teeth close gently around her, and she can't hold it in anymore.

"Castle."

Though his eyes meet hers, he doesn't disengage, just pinches her other nipple lightly between the pads of his finger and thumb, and she's desperate now. Desperate to feel him everywhere. Desperate to have him. And she can't bring herself to shut her eyes again. She just keeps watching him, enraptured, as he loves her.

She's spiraling up in the pleasure of it, feels the delicate unfurling—feathered wings, stretching and fluttering, freeing her heart as he works over her body.

Another flash of lightening brightens the room, highlights the outline of his arousal as his hips hold, unmoving. She knows he's delaying, restraining his own need, trying to slow down, savor this moment and this act. But they have all night—hell they have the rest of their lives to go slow—and right now, she craves _consummation_.

Curling up, she separates him from her breast with a quiet pop and a low hum of disappointment. When her fingers find the edge of his boxers, sneak underneath, he understands and rises up on his knees, shifts to one side, lets her sit up and slide the fabric up and over his erection, then down.

He's glorious—long, thick, and so ready for her. She's staring, she knows she is, but she can't tear her eyes away. This is happening. This is Castle, and they are about to-

Heat rises in her cheeks as she shifts her gaze back up to his eyes, and he gives her a shy little smile that she just has to kiss. He finally shifts to shimmy the shorts the rest of the way down his legs, reaches for her last piece of clothing, snags the lace at either hip and tugs down, still sipping at her lips. When he can't reach low enough to get them off, he breaks from the kiss, lays the little swath of black silk aside, and now he's the one taking her in as he kneels beside her.

His eyes make a slow ascent absorbing everything he can, considering the darkness. The lights still haven't come back on, and she' grateful—not yet ready to explain the bruises she knows are on their way to blooming over her body. She knows if he sees the evidence of her fight for her life, he'll touch her with kid gloves, and she doesn't want gentle right now. Soft and tentative can happen later; this time she wants hard and fast and life-affirming.

Save for gasping out her name, he hasn't spoken in minutes, but he finds his voice now—gravel and benediction.

"You are the _most_ beautiful woman I have ever seen. How are you even real? How are you here?"

No conscious thought spurs her to rise up to her knees to answer with her mouth; she's acting on instinct when she grips his biceps, speaks between their lips.

"I'm right here. Not going anywhere."

As she cants her hips into his, his length asserts itself against her belly, and she wants nothing more than to have it buried inside her. She has waited so long—and now she's having the same trouble believing this is real.

Insistent arms band around her waist, pull her flush against him from knees to chest. Tongues are tangling again, franticly diving, confirming all their earlier discoveries. And her well-tended restraint finally deliquesces.

Pulling away, she avoids the chase of his lips to find his eyes.

"Make love with me. Now. Right now."

Midnight blues focus through the fog of lust, and he steals a light, sloppy kiss.

Then he's leaning away toward his bedside table when she stops him with a hand on his chest.

"You don't have to... I've got it covered, and I'm clean."

One of his hands is still wrapped around her waist, and he flexes his fingers there as he looks back into her eyes.

"So am I."

He straightens up from where he's been leaning.

"Even since—"

One hand comes to her face, fingers splaying from the bridge of her nose to beneath her jaw. He looks at her mouth, serious, stern. Returns to her eyes.

"There's been no one in over a year, Kate."

But that horrible blonde last month… she was sure…

"You asked me to wait, so I waited."

Reverently, he brushes a thumb over her cheek, tracing a careful curve under her eye.

"You waited all that time for this?"

Forehead tipping down into hers, he leans in, eyes so close he's out of focus.

"I was waiting for _you_."

And with those simple words, she sinks into the gut-wrenching beauty of finally giving in.

Lips connect, get nipped in their enthusiasm, soothed with soft strokes of their tongues.

Her hands find the bunching muscles of his back, his shoulders, his ass. His reach around her, mapping dips and hollows along the ridges of her spine, the curve of her hips, the points of her elbows.

Twisting them around, she presses him down to the mattress, straddles his lap.

Both well past the point of seduction, he seems only too happy to be taken as he falls back against his billowing pillows and tugs her down with him.

Time stops for one blessed instant, as she sees the scope of everything that has led them here, the magnitude of this moment. She is certain, feels it down to her bones that he has spent as many hours fantasizing about this one tiny tick of the universe's clock as she has.

God she's nervous.

Nerves do not happen to Kate Beckett in bed. Kate Beckett is fearless and powerful and she gets her way exactly how and when she wants it. But with this man… with this man she's thinking about him. And she's thinking about four years of expectations. And she's thinking, period.

Because she loves him.

It hits her like a blast of heat, suffuses her skin, fills her lungs, sizzles down her spine, short circuits through her limbs.

It's not the realization of the emotion. She's known it, owned up to it inside her own head for a long time. It's the connection between that emotion and what they are about to do.

This is different from anything she has done before.

For all the physical pleasure they are about to extract from one another, this goes deeper.

And she is done with waiting.

She lowers herself down, slicks along his length, lets him feel what he's done to her. He has her by the waist, fingers splayed out wide and warm over the expanse of her naked skin, flexing and hissing at this first real intimate contact.

All the darkness in the room can't hide the brightness in his eyes as he watches her rising to join them. And suddenly her trembling has ceased, because she knows that no matter what happens, he's there to catch her, steadfast, sure, solid—before her, beneath her, inside her.

Castle is still, letting her lead despite the strain she can see in every flexing muscle.

He's even holding his breath—she can see his ribs expanded, lips parted, but no puff of warm air tickles her nose where it's aligned with his.

Just as she starts to sink, as the glorious pressure is about to spread her wide, his brow furrows, lashes splay in surprise at the sensation, and he lets out that breath like a prayer, grazes her lips with the whispered words, so quietly spoken that she recognizes them by feel alone.

"I love you, Kate. So much. Love you."

Relaxing every tight and transient tether on her control, she sinks, and they merge, and she's defenseless above him, around him, within him.

"Oh Rick, yes. Yes."

As much as she wants the right words to tumble out, she can't let them slip past her lips now—so blithe and blissful. They have meaning that reaches beyond this act, and so she wants the first time for each to be its own revelation.

Then he's inside her, stretching her wide and deep, filling spaces she forgot were empty, spaces that might never have existed before this night. She settles against his hips, takes his lips tenderly—light, lilting flutters that trace their unerring curve—until he surges up, flesh into flesh, tongue devouring.

Without a conscious thought, she's moving with him, tight, pulsing rolls of her hips that separate her from his mouth, make her suck down air in staccato gasps just to keep up with the reckless, wanton waves of sensation.

Their lips are open now, brushing, so close to a kiss, closer, even—sharing breath—but neither can focus enough to make contact when so many other more luscious sensations are carrying them up, faster and higher.

Flexing hips push up into her, startling her out of her passion-induced trance. And the astonished, helpless noise that she makes in response only spurs him on.

His wandering hands settle at the base of her spine, apply pressure to pull her closer. He's figured out her tells already. And why should she be surprised? He has always read her better than anyone.

Her hands tuck into the short, silky hair at the base of his scull trying to fasten some small part of her to reality when everything is falling away—everything except for the connection between them.

Every breath, every heartbeat, every pulse of blood through her body emanates from that press of warm, wet flesh. The link is strong—stronger than she's ever known it could be between two bodies locked into an embrace. She can feel him synching with her. She can feel his pulse and breath and every muscle as it strains.

In the maelstrom, it's that link that secures her, but it's also that link that does her in. She hasn't just allowed his body inside hers; she has allowed his soul.

She feels the first flutters low in her belly, where he's bumping up against her with every thrust. This is too fast—she wants it to go on—she can't fathom that it might be over so soon. But her hips clench forward, stiffen against him, grip him so tight with every spasm, let his motion take over—take her flying, freefalling through air and light and warmth.

Her release begins to overtake her, but she finds his eyes, waiting for him to follow. Instead of abandon, she sees something more familiar—determination. He is watching her, taking in every flicker of her lashes, every lip-parting pant as she hits the precipice. He's with her, in just as deep, but he's held on to burn her image on to his memory.

Kissing him as she starts to come down from the high, she's not sure if she should be flattered that he waited or offended that he even could. His voice, breathing into her mouth, settles that argument.

"Do you know how amazing you are? That was so gorgeous. And now you're going to do it again, so I can go with you."

Rationally, she might blame her boneless limbs, her hazy brain, but if she's honest with herself, the reason he's able to tuck her into his chest and roll her beneath him is that she wants him to. She wants to be cradled against him, burdened by the weight of his body as it drives inside her once again.

She's not sure she can find her way back up again with him—she's so spent by this intensity. Her hearing has fuzzed out, and her vision is blurred at the edges, as if all her senses are conspiring to converge on those eyes—God those eyes—snapping blue and black, flashing the contents of his soul down upon her with every strike of lightening.

But then he begins to move, and she's powerless and omnipotent all at once, hips rising to meet his, holding, circling, rocking. Before she knows it, she's building up again, and she wants it just as badly as the first time. More, because she knows this time he'll fall with her, into her.

There are no acrobatics, no artifice at all in their coupling. Everything flows—simple, skin and heat and limbs entwining. Despite his earlier self-denial, he is methodical, listening and responding to every change of angle, every shift in her breathing as he moves inside her; she is the one who urges him faster.

His forehead is nudging her chin, drops of perspiration passing from his sweaty skin to hers as his lips stretch to trace the hollow between her collarbones. His hands snake under the curve of her spine, tug upward until her hips are tilting into the sweet undulations of his.

Everything aligns in that breath, and she cries out, drawing his attention back up to her face. His look deepens to a question.

She's close, and she thinks he sees it, hears it, feels it. But he's second guessing, and so she gives him a tiny nod and a plea.

"Please."

Time speeds up, space shrinks down to a tiny point of light. He's plunging deep, letting himself take from her after all this giving. But she wants him wild. She wants him wanton and coming apart with her name on his lips, withholding nothing. So she urges him on, meets him thrust for thrust.

With the imaging of his reckless abandon pounding inside her head, she registers the warbling waves of her own climax beginning to crest. She arcs into his body, digs her nails into the flesh at his hips, feel the strength of his muscles as they surge forward, push her over the edge.

And she's keening; air can't leave her lungs without sound streaming out.

His brow furrows in concentration, lips part, strokes become erratic, and he's crying out her name and spilling inside her with his eyes wide open, love spilling over, pulsing, filling her.

She's drowning in the joy of it. He's collapsing against her chest, arms still tucked tightly around her, as they parse the aftershocks, slow their breaths, try to pull their tangled souls back inside.

Kate finds that she can't separate hers from his. She is clinging, literally, to his solid form above her, not caring that she doesn't do this, doesn't feel this way after sex. She's giddy—luxuriating in the certainty of his desire, the strength of his love, the physical presence of his skin and muscle and bone pressing her into the mattress.

Finally he begins to shift, raises up to take his weight onto his arms. She draws in a sharp breath when he separates from her, still so over-sensitized.

She could make love with this man all night long.

Finding her lips, he kisses her gently before rolling away, tugging down covers and rearranging pillows around her head, which is useful, since she is not capable of concerted thought, coordinated movement. She barely makes it under the sheet in her love-drunk exhaustion, but once she does, he's pulling her into his side, draping her over his body, finding her fingers to clutch at them as they lie on his chest.

His words register half through the air and half through the vibration of his chest against her ear.

"Kate, that was…"

Despite her delirium, she's conscious enough to be intrigued. It's quite a thought—hearing her favorite author describe their love-making.

"…I don't have words."

Smiling up at him then, she memorizes the ruffled outline of his hair backlit by lightening, the sharp edge of his nose in the shadows.

She's left him speechless.

If she could find the energy to climb up to find his mouth, she would kiss it. Instead, she places a soft, open-mouthed caress to his chest, feels the muscle jump under her lips as they bow upward.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

His fingers are charting aimless cartography over her back, dipping below the sheet that's drawn up to the points of her shoulder blades. She's having her own trouble with words. As she succumbs to the languishing tendrils of sleep, she thinks she's found one for this feeling, though, sated and warm in his arms.

This feels like home.

# * # * # * #

For Joy, who brings joy, and acts as equal parts editor and psychiatrist. I thank her from the bottom of my heart, because she says I'm wonderful even when I'm not and even tells me I can use big words if I want to. May every writer be so lucky as to have her own Dr. Worf to talk her down off ledges. _(Trekkies, I do not mean to imply Joy is an actual Klingon, but if she were, she'd kick ass with a bat'leth, trust me.)_

To everyone who has reviewed, you have made my day. To everyone who has favorited and followed, I hope I inspire you to review someday, but until then, I hope you keep reading and enjoying.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	3. Chapter 3

**Nocturne Chapter Three**

"_**And you can't hear me yet, listening takes a long, long time.  
And I've so much to tell, but words die on these lips of mine."**_

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, 2012 Rounder Records  
No copyright infringement intended.**

The storm has quieted, no longer imposing itself on their ears and eyes with its harsh intensity. Over her quiet breathing he hears nothing but the rain.

She has slipped into a smooth, easy slumber at least a thousand even breaths ago. He knows because he has the warm wash of air against his chest, the steady spread of her ribs beneath his fingertips, to measure by.

He has measured so much by her over the last four years, but tonight… tonight he's added volumes to his lexicon.

The scent of her rain-drenched hair beneath his nose.

The strength of her arms as she holds his body against hers.

The sharpness of her fingernails as they dig into his skin.

The angle of her thighs as they part for him.

The tightening of her flesh under his mouth.

The pitch of her cries as he takes her up.

His world will now be measured by them all.

This woman, this soft, sleeping thing, naked and nuzzled and half-draped over him, this is Kate.

He's been cataloguing Beckett, memorizing, predicting, anticipating her thoughts and reactions for so long that he had thought he knew every facet of her. But now he sees that in all that time, he has barely glimpsed this woman.

Excitement, bubbling and bright, is his first reaction to all this new knowledge. If he's learned so much in so few hours alone with her, he knows that exponentially more awaits him in the days and weeks, and God willing, decades to come.

He's seen hints; he's seen first-hand evidence of her selfless, giving nature. But those times were with victims' families, with occasional unfortunate suspects who had reacted badly when placed in a bad situation.

There are moments when he has seen it directed at himself. Times she has counseled him on his daughter. Times she has held his hand when she knows he needs an anchor. Times she has held him in her arms, let him hold her, too. But in all those instances, he's told himself she is indulging his weakness, giving in to condescension in order to help him through.

He realizes now that he has subconsciously felt less of himself for craving those moments of communion, of reassurance, because he thinks maybe she feels less of him for needing them.

But he thinks he understands now. He thinks he sees that while she doesn't give of her whole self easily, once she gives, she gives completely. She has no dam to staunch the flow, no filter to impede the deepest currents of her soul. The wall is all or nothing. And tonight, it's dust. Despite all their differences, in this they have one great similarity. They go all in.

But on the tail of that elation of discovery, a darker thought teases his subconscious. A niggling feeling of foreboding that won't let him sleep.

If she could hide all this from him so well for four years, maybe from everyone in her life, maybe for a decade, she could certainly keep hiding. And damn it, he's greedy. He wants everything.

The negativity swirls through his brain, and in the dark and the quiet, there is nothing to stop it from possessing him, sinking his optimistic heart.

What if she leaves?

What if he wakes up alone?

What if tonight has been an adrenaline-induced reaction to her latest near-death experience?

The thought is suddenly drowning him, filling his lungs with icy, black dread.

Just because she's here, just because she stood in front of him at his door and kissed him, and he kissed her back, doesn't mean that this is real. Just because she wants him tonight, when she's cold and alone and afraid, it doesn't guarantee that when she wakes up tomorrow she won't stop wanting.

His heart clenches, his blood runs cold under her warm skin.

He knows what it's like to love her, to feel her respond to his hands and his mouth and his voice. He knows the tiny, startled little gasp she lets out when he finds a new way to please her. He's heard her call out his name as she's giving in, rising up, falling apart. And now he can't imagine hearing it from anyone else's lips. He can't un-see, un-hear, un-feel everything that this night has meant to him.

If she wants to forget—he might not survive in a world in which she doesn't acknowledge what's passed between them.

Panic has him clutching her tighter, hoping his physical hold on her will be enough to keep her with him for now.

And then she's taking a deeper breath, sliding her hand from where it's been resting over his heart down around his ribs, tucking her fingers between the mattress and his body, scissoring a leg over his, humming quietly against his skin. Unconscious or not, she's clinging, too. Tethering herself to him in the silent cocoon of the rain-drenched night.

And then he flashes back to her face, to the look in her eyes as she came to him, came for him, came with him. She hasn't said the words. He wants them, needs them so badly that his heart clutches tight as he imagines her saying them aloud. But she's shown him tonight. Undeniably. Even at her most maddening, frustrating, stubbornly blind moments, she cannot deny what her eyes have said to him tonight.

She loves him. And she made love with him. Amazing sex is one thing. This earth shattering convergence of body, heart, soul—this is making love. He's always known he would recognize it when happened.

This is not going to be easy. She will not magically open up to him about every thought in her head and feeling in her heart just because of what's happened in his bed.

He knows this will take patience, and work. But he also remembers what she told him not long ago, that she wanted to put in the work to get better. And he knows now she wants to get better for herself, but also for him, for them. Everything she has shown him tonight he owes to her hard work. And so he's ready to work at this right along with her.

The dread is slowly leeching out of him, replaced by contentment, hesitant optimism.

She loves him. He tells himself so that he can hear the words, get used to how they feel washing over his heart like the warm summer rain.

His eyes are growing heavy, but his heart is light. He will sleep now. He will sleep, because he knows when he wakes, she will be with him.

# * # * # * #

**First, thank you to all the reviewers out there. What a fabulous response. I am floored. **

**Review that made me laugh aloud: Eyrianone's "Holy hell," because it totally caught me off guard. And a close second to farewellblindgirl, but DO NOT take up smoking just for post-fic afterglow… :)**

**Next, to clear up confusion, this story has more chapters. It will be continuing until the premiere, posting about every other day. Not ALL of them will be M, as you can see from this quickie, but yes, there will be more M. And I'll be updating the playlist on Youtube if you like to hear what I listen to while writing:**

**Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**

**And as always, thanks to my Beta-extraordinaire (shouldn't you really be an "ALPHA"?), Joy, for absolutely no nagging and all the encouragement. And the promise of rooftop reading with Sheep.**

**BONUS POINTS IF YOU SAW THE BATTLESTAR GALACTICA NOD IN THIS CHAPTER.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Nocturne Chapter Four**

"_**But in the stillness you may sense everything I long to say,  
Unraveling like golden threads, the walls will all come down this way."**_

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, 2012 Rounder Records  
No copyright infringement intended.**

She's rolling, skittering off the ledge like she's nothing at all. Insubstantial. She's given her best, and it's fallen miserably, humiliatingly short.

"Actually, we know exactly who we're up against."

Maddox takes in her situation with a calculating glance.

The fear sinks in her gut like a stone. She's going to fall. She's going to fall, and she hasn't kissed him. She hasn't told him. She hasn't loved him.

The man who has bested her seems as if he might step back, leave her fate to her own failure of strength.

But then he steps closer, edges his boot toward her fingers. She can't let go to move them out of his way, can only wait for the inevitable weight, the bone-crushing force to end her.

As he steps and she falls, she screams out for her partner, feels her soul separating, trying to stay behind as her body plummets. Waiting for him to save her.

But she feels the drop—the whip of the wind almost enough to buffet her upward—sees the ledge and the man in black receding, shrinking, so far above her as she plummets.

She must have reached the ground by now—only she hasn't. She's still falling, arms pinwheeling helplessly, legs kicking out for purchase against the vast nothingness of the air, voice hollowing out to a silent rasp.

And when she thinks this horror will never end, will continue into an abyss of loss and limbo, she jolts to a stop, heart hammering against her ribs, limbs heavy but not broken. She sucks in a breath, flexes every muscle, tries to wrest herself up and out of the depths of this oblivion.

She meets resistance, warm and solid and vibrating. No, not vibrating. Speaking.

She can't… everything is lost… Everyone is gone…

"Kate!"

His voice breaks through it. His voice counteracts gravity, pulls her out of the ether.

She's hot. Sweaty. Claustrophobic. Wrapped up and unable to move.

She has to fight for air, fight for space, fight for control.

There are bands around her arms, across her chest, over her hips and legs. She's pinned. She can't move. She needs to move.

She forces a breath in, fills her lungs, struggles against the bonds that hold her.

"Sssshhh. Kate, it's me. You're dreaming. Wake up, come on. Wake up for me."

She stills, tries to take stock of her limbs, find her body in this reality.

"Castle?"

"Yeah, it's me."

He's holding her. He's above her, strong arms bracketing hers, knees straddling her hips.

Castle.

She's with him.

She's naked, in his bed.

They made love.

She fell asleep in his arms.

"You were dreaming."

It's a statement, not a question.

He doesn't ask for an explanation.

She wants to know what her subconscious and her body shared without her knowledge, but she can't ask.

Wetness cools on her cheeks, despite his warm body above her.

He's holding himself up, keeping himself away from her, as though he isn't sure she would welcome the intrusion of his arms and legs around her.

She would. She does.

Her lids shut against the jagged, flickering images, too bright, too stark. But the images are inside her eyes, and closing them only makes them more brilliant.

"Beckett?"

At use of her last name, her eyes shoot open, habit and memory overriding any sense of embarrassment.

She fixes on the deep blue before her, bright despite the darkness of the room.

"I'm here."

Her arms find him, clutch around his middle, pull him down tight on top of her.

"God, I'm here."

He lets her hold him against her, nose to her cheek, skin measuring her breath.

Within his arms, everything becomes warm and safe and solid; he _loves_ her.

She didn't fall from the building. Ryan caught her hand—beat mortality again. For now.

Her consciousness has almost caught up, almost reconciled her dream with reality.

And as much as she can't stand the thought of reliving that nightmare again, she knows she needs to get this out.

Her lips are at his ear, legs are insinuating themselves around his calves, hands are stroking over the tense muscles of his back, as she begins.

"I almost fell off a roof."

He stiffens in her arms.

"What?"

"Today—Maddox. Esposito and I tracked him to a hotel room. We went in without any backup. Cleared the place, found Montgomery's files and laptop, but he came in after us, knocked us both down. I chased him up to the roof."

Unsteady silence is his only response, probably because he's trying not to overreact and scream at her. In hindsight, everything she has done apart from him, apart from coming here to him, is so utterly idiotic.

A tight breath, a blink of her eyes, a tilt of her cheek to scrape against his stubble: these are just enough to anchor her in the reality of this bed before she continues.

"I fought him-hard. Went after him even after he tossed me around. I hit him with every last ounce of strength I had. He nearly choked me, dropped me flat on my back, rammed his knee into my gut, kicked me when I was down."

Tears are streaming down her face, and he's nearly vibrating above her, holding back some deep seated impulse by staying still. But she is grateful for that steadfast immobility. She needs the anonymity of silence, the steady pressure of his body over hers to get all of this out.

"And I just kept getting up again—diving in. He finally shoved me off, probably didn't even mean to aim the way he did, but I rolled right over the edge."

Her voice breaks and she has to catch her breath.

"It's okay to cry; let it out."

She nods into his shoulder, but he finally moves enough to look into her face, reaffirming their connection for just an instant—just long enough—before he wraps his hand behind her head and holds her to him again.

The last of the sobs work their way out of her lungs, and she tries to finish, burrowing against the ridge of his collarbone.

"I caught the edge… I was holding on by my fingertips; I knew I was going to fall. I thought he was going to finish it. In the dream, he did. But today, he just looked down at me and walked away. Probably thought it would be more poetic if my own weakness… If he didn't even have to…"

She takes a noisy, sloppy breath, can't face him.

"I yelled for you."

Lifting up, he tugs gently on her hair to get her to drop her head to the pillow, forces her to look at him while she tells him the rest. His eyes are swimming. She can see the tracks of tears glistening in the weak city light through the blinds.

He needs this. He needs to know. He needs to understand why she's here now.

"I saw your face. It was all I could see. Trying to make me see reason, telling me you love me." She blinks hard, futilely tries to hide more tears, but they escape anyway. "I swore I heard… I heard your voice calling back to me—telling me to hold on. And I thought, 'I've never given him the chance to tell me when he wasn't crying.'"

His tears overflow again, but now her hands are there, wiping them softly away, pressing gently against his cheeks to smooth out the hard press of his frown. He smiles as he utters the words again.

"I love you. Sorry—still crying. Damn it, I guess I'll just have to say it again later."

The sudden upturn of her lips surprises her; unexpected happiness spills from her chest. She finds his lips, kisses away as much hurt and pain and regret as she can.

He is the one to break off, pulling away only enough to see her, smiling brightly.

"I have an idea."

"Okay… Should I be worried?"

"Nope."

Kissing her forehead with a noisy smack of his lips, he extracts himself from her embrace, moves to climb off the bed in the direction of his office.

"Where are you going?"

Though she does her best to take the shrill, needy tone from her voice, she's nearly certain she's failed.

"Still no power. Guess the generator is out, too. Going for the candles."

"I'll come with you."

She's up and after him, trailing naked into his personal space as he reaches for the bottom drawer of his desk.

Coming up with a bag of red tea-lights and a wand lighter, he straightens and kisses her nose, which is much closer than it ought to be, considering that she has her pride, really she does.

Crowding her backward toward his bedroom, he catches her off balance, and she stumbles a bit, still not as comfortable as he seems with all this nakedness.

She sees his expression alight and can't help the moment of foreboding fear. He has the bag of candles and the lighter in one hand, but even so, he reaches down, scoops her up, holds her close as he carries her back through the bedroom and into his bathroom.

"You're either really brave or really stupid, Castle."

"Counting on the former."

She rolls her eyes as he sets her down, feet hitting the cold tile near his massive freestanding porcelain tub. It's egg-shaped and white from what she can see, as modern as the rest of the loft.

Bending down, he shows her his tight derriere and plugs the drain, starts the taps. Steam billows almost immediately.

"Good thing the water heater is gas."

She's not sure what to do with herself now, after being literally carried into the room, set down before the tub. He's dropping candles on every flat surface he can reach, pinching up wicks and setting them aflame. The room comes to life in a warm, orange glow, flickering unevenly and reflected back in the mirrors above the vanity, the dark windows above the tub.

With the air conditioning off, he opens the windows, lets the whipping wind have its way with the wax and string.

He opens a drawer below the sink, pulls out a few bottles, scans the labels as he sets them on the counter.

"Bubbles? Bath salts? I might even have _foaming_ bath salts in here somewhere. Alexis is the one who uses the tub, so she's got it pretty well stocked."

Glancing up for her answer, his eyes snag at her hip.

"Oh, Kate."

In an instant, he's on his knees before her, reaching out with tentative fingertips. He palms her just below the edge of the bright purple blotch, strokes his thumb across the curved edge where Maddox's knee has left its mark.

"He hurt you."

Looking up, with eyes so sad, so full of unvoiced regret, he turns her a bit, drawing her side more fully into the flicker of candlelight. He takes in every inch of her, inspects every blemish. His touches are light, never eliciting pain even though she's sure everything will hurt tomorrow.

She's made a half turn for him, and he hasn't said another word, just quietly lets out a breath every time he finds a new place.

But then he lets out a chuckle. Ah, she wondered when he would find it. She cranes her neck to see his face as she feels his fingertip tracing the dark lines. He's smiling again.

"Cyrillic?"

She nods. His look of giddy excitement lights her up inside, makes her want to light him up, too.

"Герой же моей  
повести - правда"

And that pretty much does the trick. Christmas morning with all the toys.

"Just when I think you can't possibly be any hotter, you stand naked in my bathroom and speak Russian to me." And that is a smirk she just has to return. "What does it mean?"

"'The hero of my tale is truth.' It's Tolstoy."

"Of course it is."

His warm words caress her skin as he kisses the lines of unfamiliar characters.

"Will you teach me how to say it sometime?"

Everything melts with his tenderness, his reach into this future they are creating tonight.

"Sure."

He grins and grips the tub and counter, pushes up with popping knees to stand behind her, shake some bath salts under the stream of water.

"Why don't you get in—I'll be right back."

And he's out the door, leaving her alone with her bruises and her scars. She understands his hesitance to touch when she sees herself flicker into focus in the steaming mirror. Her day is painted upon her body in brutal brushstrokes, more blunt than any description. The visual seems to remind her body of every spot, but there's nothing for it now but to soak in the heat.

The satin finish of the faucet handle is cool as she turns off the flow of water, lets the silence settle in around her.

The first touch of heat against the tip of one toe has her pulling back, too much, too fast. But she knows she'll adjust, knows in the end it's just the shock of newness, not the warmth itself that sends her shrinking back. And so one toe, and then a foot, a calf, a knee. She breathes and lets the heat soak through one limb before dropping her other in beside it, then finally submerging, settling her neck against the warming porcelain.

Her lashes flutter closed, sinking her into inky blackness as goosebumps erupt.

Soundlessly, he's beside her. She feels his presence as he enters the room, like a lodestone tilting toward her north.

She finds him crouching beside the tub, covered in his robe, holding out icy water and a palm with an offer of two ibuprofen. A pile of fluffy towels lays on the counter beside him.

An urge to kiss him senseless overwhelms her—for all this quiet care, for not making a single move to seduce her.

The catch in her voice surprises her as she thanks him, downs the pills, gulps the water.

The look on his face conveys only concern, and love, and he stands as if to step away.

It's a reflex, it must be, the way her hand shoots out, envelops his wrist before he can put distance between them. Somehow, it's essential to her that he stay-essential that he be here with her to help her heal this time. Because now they can heal each other.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Perplexed at her teasing tone, he quirks his brow.

"I'm gonna need someone to wash my back."

A hint of upturned lips reflects back at her. Dropping his hand as he drops the robe, she scoots forward to give him room. A new flush suffuses her skin as she reacts to his body. She still can't quite get used to the fact that all this brazen nakedness is allowed, that all of him is hers for the seeing, and for the taking.

He seems conflicted at first, but he steps in, sits behind her, legs scrunched up, unwilling to touch her.

Enough of that—she slides back until all he can do is stretch his legs on either side of her hips, wrap his arms around her and settle back.

Steam curls up around them, lazy tendrils wafting in the air currents stirred by the breeze through the window. The only sound now is street noise and the occasional ripple from one or the other as they adjust, learn how to just be, how to sit quietly, comfortably, with no work to do.

Arms and legs and skin and breath, muscles unclenching, joints relaxing—this must be what calm feels like, when it's shared. She has never known this sort of quiet communion existed with another person.

It would be so easy to doze off just like this. With the adrenaline finally fading, some of the fatigue is sneaking in, reminding her of her earlier abuse. But even as she feels the strength ebbing, a different energy is flowing into her. She's absorbing it in waves from the heartbeat pulsing at her back, the chest expanding against hers. He stirs slightly just before the words wash over her.

"I think it's finally over. The rain."

Not just the rain, but that'll do for now.

"I think maybe it is."

# * # * # * #

**Bows to Joy, keeper of all missing words and punctuation.**

**I continue to be baffled by the magnitude of the positive response to this little post-Always fic. Every single review is read and appreciated.**

**Review that made me grin like an idiot: **Caffinate-me** for her absolutely ridiculous love-song sappiness. And the one that made me blush: **MirandaJayne** for calling my writing "silky-smooth" and "undulating." And it wasn't even an M-chapter… Is it warm in here? Also, **lv2bnsb1** I stand corrected—no more "Quickie" references. I am profoundly long-winded.**

**The first and only BSG winner was **roslinrocks** – "Whadaya hear, Starbuck? Nothin' but the rain." You want to pick a (short) line to fit into a chapter later?**

**Playlist is growing:**

**Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Nocturne Chapter Five**

"_**And you don't know me yet, knowing takes a long, long time  
And time is all we have, never traveling in straight lines."**_

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, **_**Ashes and Roses**_**, 2012 Rounder Records  
No copyright infringement intended.**

His eyes open slowly at the gentle brush of one fingertip against the outer curve of his knee. Some earlier version of himself would be horrified that he's nearly fallen asleep like this, naked in his bathtub, with Kate Beckett laid out over his chest. But this current incarnation—the more mature one, he thinks—can't bring himself to feel guilty about the past few minutes of lying here, absorbing as much of this willing, relaxed, resting Kate as he possibly can.

He's never seen her like this—well okay, but he doesn't just mean the nakedness, technically he's seen her naked in a bathtub once before. He's never seen her guard so entirely and intentionally down. And gratitude swells in inside him for this moment of peace and quiet with her.

So when his lids had begun to droop a few minutes before, he had indulged for a moment. But now, now this single digit has revived him, as it trails a feather-light line down from knee to ankle, then back up again, over and over. And he cannot ignore that this slender finger belongs to the heap of sleepy woman pinning him back against the end of his tub—his Kate.

He knows they can't have been out for long—the water is still toasty warm. But when she adds a second finger, and some swirling curlicues to her exploration, goose flesh erupts along her path and spreads to overtake his whole body.

Oh, she's definitely not sleepy. The quickening rise and fall of her chest and the deliberate shift of her strokes to the inside of his calf and knee make that very clear.

Making love is the last thing he could think of after seeing her battle scars, but he's no saint. And damn it, right now with the short nails of both hands trailing up his inner thighs, she's no angel.

His whole body is so loose, his mind so fluid, his heart so open, he would do anything for her at this moment. Not that he wouldn't at any other moment… but oh, she's put her lithe fingers to work on his calf muscles, and he needs to fight fire with fire.

There's a swoosh of water when he unwraps his arms from around her waist, and the gentle noise is almost a shock in the complete silence of his powerless loft. But with his hands free, he goes about exploring new slopes and valleys, slick and warm with the fragrant water of their bath.

This is the perfect position to appreciate the softness of her breasts as they dip beneath the surface of the water. They give and take and mould to his hands, tighten at his touch. He will never tire of touching her. Will never tire of finding ways to make her gasp and sigh, her heartbeat skip and jump.

His body is responding in spades to her touch, and she must feel the evidence because she shifts her hips slightly to trap his arousal between them.

Stars flash behind his eyes when she rocks her hips back against him, deliberately, torturously, and he drops his hands to her waist in a futile effort to still her movements.

"Evil woman," he whispers quietly into her mouth as he turns to give her an awkward half-kiss.

Smiling into his mouth, she rocks back again.

Painfully erect, he nudges his hips lightly against her low back just to relieve some of the sweet tension. The move backfires, because now he can remember with crystal clarity exactly what it felt like to press inside her, relieve all the tension, and the sense of soul-shaking _want_ makes him dizzy.

Without any warning, she sits up, shifts away from his chest, rippling the now-cooler water against his overheated skin.

She kneels, guides him to stretch out his legs, straddles his thighs, settles herself back against his straining length. She's leaning forward, still facing away, hands braced on either edge of the tub, the slender line of her spine cast in shadow by the flickering light of the candles.

He watches the perfect curve of her ass as she slides up his length. His hands find her ankles, trace over her calves, kneading the muscles with his fingers. He's just had her, just been inside her only a couple of hours before, but if anything, that experience only makes him more desperate to have her again. He's an addict. And he's only now realizing how quickly withdrawal has set in. Oh, but the glory of that snap of pleasure, the heat licking through his veins when they break together, it's worth the searing need.

And then she's aligned and sliding down, encompassing him with her body.

The warm water has softened all the edges left over from doubts and nightmares, and while that heat soothes, the heat of her body, tight and sweet around him, inflames.

Every sensation is heightened, every nerve impulse is sharp as she takes him in, sinks until their hips are flush and he's buried deep.

Tight, hot, clutching rightness descends.

Hands tracing up her thighs, he sits forward until his chest meets her back.

He lets out a hot breath against the curve of her neck, spans her waist with his reaching fingers.

She hasn't moved, hasn't shifted at all, and he feels her ribs expand against his in a deep, slow breath before she finally, slowly rises and sinks again.

Nothing he has ever imagined could compare to the feel of her body against his, warm and slow and trembling with need—need that he can fulfill.

Her breath expels fast and hard as his hands skirt her ribs on their way up her body. He finds her nipples hard against his thumbs as he brushes over them, forcing a sharp intake of air from her. He scrapes his nail lightly across one and gets a gasp, then stretches the taut point until it softens, and immediately takes it between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes it gently back to a hardened peak. His name spills off her lips, and he just cannot get over how vocal she is, how responsive and open and willing.

She's so caught up in what his hands are doing, she's stopped moving. When he repeats the whole torturous sequence, she squirms, writhes under his hands. Oh, she likes this; she wants the jagged edge of roughness, the sweet contrast of a gentle touch.

He wants her weight on him, leans back to rest against the end of the tub and pulls her with him. She shifts around him with this new alignment and he feels her inner muscles spasm hard. He has leverage now, and he presses up into her, tests her response to the angle.

"Oh God."

Her head tosses from side to side, lands with her nose against his cheek. Yeah, this is definitely working for her. He feels her flutter around him again as he thrusts.

"Good?"

"Fuck."

That would be a yes. Wow, so she talks dirty in bed… Or in bathtubs… Good to know.

Everything about this position is working for him, having her body over him, back arching, breasts thrust out into his hands, the curve of her ass pressing back into his hipbones, warm water lapping at their skin as they rock together.

But as much as he loves finding new ways to caress her breasts, there are other places on her body he has yet to explore.

Tracing down the convexity of her abdomen, he dips a finger in her belly button, skirts its rim, brushes across the flat span between her jutting hip bones. He knows she's sore here, even though in the dim light and the deep water of the tub he can't quite make out the bruise. He's trying to be gentle, trying not to push too hard or do anything that would hurt. But he realizes this position must be straining her sore muscles.

"Is this hurting you? I don't want—"

"Ssshhhhh. Just love me."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

His fingers trail downward, brush her curls, nudge lower until he can skirt her outer folds, spread wide around where their bodies are joined. She moans and shifts her hips, can't seem to decide where she wants the contact most.

He moves to trace her inner lips, swollen and stretched taut around him, and a growl rumbles from deep in his chest.

The sensation of her slight tightness around him, and the simultaneous stretch of flesh under his fingers nearly overwhelms him. The two perspectives on their merging almost push him over the edge, and he has to move his hand slightly away to get control of himself.

The flat lengths of two fingers drift up to brush lightly over her center, and she gasps against his neck, where her lips have drifted, open and seeking. Recognizing the same tiny, high-pitched noise of pleasure from their earlier coupling, he leaves them there, just providing the slightest friction as she moves under them. She must be over-sensitized after all of their lovemaking, and this near-lack of pressure is just enough, because she's humming now, speeding her hips.

The pleasure is already coiling, sweet and sharp at the base of his spine. He thrusts up to match her faster rhythm, and she's bracing her arms on the edge of the tub, finding leverage to meet him. Every movement is punctuated by a shallow breath, a faint, airy cry, and he feels her walls flutter around him.

Taking a chance, he adds pressure with his fingers against her bundle of nerves, and her back bows as her voice calls out, begs him not to stop.

The world could be ending in flame and flash around them and he wouldn't stop drawing this gorgeous pleasure from her.

Another clutch of her muscles, and her movements still.

Following his body's instinct, he pushes faster, harder, and then she's tightening around him, rhythmic waves of pressure from her pull his own climax from his body, and he releases inside her, wave after wave cresting until he thinks it may never stop—they may never stop.

She collapses back with a huff of breath, boneless as they recover. Blood slowly returns to his brain, and he notices the water level might be a bit lower than it was before… and the room might be slightly darker, too. Less flickering. He smiles at their enthusiasm, kisses the top of her head.

The action seems to rouse her, and she shifts, separates from him, gets off her knees and curls up sort of sideways in his lap.

"God, we are so _good_ at that."

Turning a raised eyebrow on him, she drips sarcasm.

"Really, Castle? 'Good' is the best you can come up with?"

"Hey, that was a complete sentence. I'm pretty proud of myself, actually, considering."

Her hand lands warm on his chest, strokes up and down.

"I guess I can let it slide just this once."

"There was definitely a lot of sliding."

She groans, and he's sure he feels her eye-roll where her head is resting against his neck.

Realization dawns, and a completely different warmth fills his chest.

It's easy to be with her like this. They can do this and still be _them_.

He hears a hum overhead and feels a gust of cool air.

"I think the power's back."

"Mmm. Can we leave the lights off anyway?"

Wow, she's totally a closet romantic. He'll take it.

"Of course. I've got candles to last a week."

Oh, he really didn't mean to imply that…

"Don't think we'll need them in the morning."

His heart dances a little jig. She really is going to be here when he wakes up. He really doesn't want to move, but the water is starting to get cold.

"We should get out."

"But it's comfy here."

Adorable, sleepy Kate is about the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"Yeah, but I don't want to be responsible for making you all pruny."

"Fine…"

Uncurling herself, she stands, a little slow to stretch here and there. As he does the same, all sorts of achy places remind him that he hasn't made love all night in a very long time. But her body is the one that worries him more. She starts to step out of the tub.

"Hang on a sec. I think there's a puddle."

He steps out first, grabs his towel from the rack, drops it next to the soaked bathmat, gives her a hand out.

Ushering her to the shower, he starts the stream of hot water. They soap up, rinse off, he washes her hair. Neither speaks, letting gentle hands ask and answer.

She's smiling when he dries her off, wraps her in his robe, scrubs a towel through her hair. Why she is letting him take care of her like this is beyond him, but he isn't about to bring it up.

And then she does the same for him. So maybe that's why—give and take. The feel of her hands roaming over him, tickling with the fluffy towel makes him grin too. He leaves her with a fresh toothbrush to turn off all the lights.

Seeing his living room lit again just reminds him that only a few short hours ago, his night was going very differently. He had been thinking about a night of scotch alone in the dark; now he thinks about what he has in his fridge for their breakfast. It's gonna have to be one serious breakfast after all this.

When he returns, she's righted the covers, tucked herself under them, but her eyes are still open. He goes to his dresser to pull out a t-shirt, some shorts.

"You really think you're gonna need those, Castle?"

Oh.

Well, maybe not.

**# * # * # * #**

**And ode to Joy: thank you as always for the all-hours beta, and for your impeccable research skills on spelling words that may or may not actually exist in the English language.**

**Review that made me laugh: Actually, it was for chapter two, but **Muppet47** totally made me cackle at work: "Mommy is READING." Thank you **Serebranka** for correcting my Russian! I am so excited to have a dialogue coach in another language! I am so glad people liked the tattoo. **

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com**

**Playlist (still adding on): ****Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Nocturne Chapter Six**

**"So memorize each turn and twist, just be careful as you go**  
**For if love is a labyrinth, then my heart is Jericho."**

**-Mary Chapin Carpenter, _Ashes and Roses_, 2012 Rounder Records**  
**No copyright infringement intended.**

Mmm. Warm arms. Warm chest. Soft sheets. Snuggly pillow. Snuggly man.

His scent is surrounding her, familiar, subtle, comforting.

She opens her eyes slowly, takes in the pearly gray pre-dawn wash of light. With a blinking clock on the bedside table and no watch in easy reach, she can only guess it's around four thirty or five.

Her internal clock is set to wake her in time for a run before work.  
Work that she no longer does.

She has a momentary pang of regret, but then she feels Castle's breath tickling her neck, his body spooned solidly behind hers, and she cannot regret a thing.

She'll tell him in the morning. She's sure he won't be upset, as long as she isn't. And right now, 'upset' is as far from her mind as it's ever been.

She could get used to this—waking up in his arms, nudging through the last vestiges of sleep cuddled with the man she loves. A softer way to greet the morning, letting the day open up in this little world  
they've created before they have to face the one outside each other's embrace.

She's surprising herself at every turn—never before one to wake up pleased to find someone pressed close or to linger in the comfort of that closeness. Close always seemed claustrophobic, and a bed was a place to spend as little time as possible outside of sex and sleep.

Lazing leaves her mind time to wander, brings to it unbidden thoughts of things she can't change, images from bad dreams that spill into her consciousness.

But this? This happy moment of awakening bears repeating. And so they will repeat it, she thinks, as often as their lives will allow. The future is cast in a rosy glow, and for once she has no desire to shine  
the stark light of reality on to every detail. They'll figure it out. They already are.

She shifts a bit in his arms. After everything else that happened in the past twenty four hours, she's amazed that all her body seems to remember at this moment are their acrobatics in his bath tub. His touch seems to have erased every mark, undone every punishment wrought by other hands.

Despite her snarky response at the time, he was so right when he said they were good at this. It is as though he has a map of her body, highlighting every spot that makes her sigh. But more than just a map, he knows exactly how to touch her, when to back off, when to advance. Observation is his forte; he's been watching her for years, taking in little details no one has ever bothered to notice.

But they've only been at this for a few hours, and already he knows more than anyone she's been with about what she likes, what drives her to distraction, what makes her desperate and then what fulfills all that need.

She had thought the first time may have been so spectacular because of the thrill of newness, the head rush of finally being together after so much anticipation, so much delaying and denying.

But then in the bath… she thinks she may never have had a climax so intense in her life. Everything was surreal, weightless in the water, and his hands were everywhere, mouth soft and seeking. They fit  
together so effortlessly—didn't even have to try to please each other.

Never one to demure in the bedroom, she wouldn't say she's ever had a problem with being shy. But with Castle, it's as if every inhibition has flown out the window. The feeling is positively wild, reckless,  
free.

Though her instinct is always to lead, there is no question in her mind that she will willingly go wherever this man wants to take her. And she fully intends to take him to heights he's never imagined.

As ridiculous as it seems, lying here tucked against him, she suddenly wants to see him.

Careful not to jostle too much, she turns in his arms, and there he is. Just a bit in awe at his closeness, she readjusts so her head rests beside his on the pillow.

It's her turn to study him.

Face slack with sleep, cheek pressed into the downy cloud of their shared pillow, he looks younger. She's imagining it, but she swears he looks more like the man she met four years ago. His eyes have lost a few lines; his brow is no longer a worried furrow.

And he's smiling in his sleep. Well, maybe not exactly smiling, but the pert bow of his lips is turned up at the corners rather than down.

She wants to badly to be the reason for his lightness, for his lack of sorrow rather than its cause.

His spirit is joyful; he is far more capable of seeing the good in every situation than she has ever been. It's one of the things she loves about him, though it sometimes makes her crazy. Maybe it's rubbed off just a bit, though. She's spent a decade mired in all the darkness that her past and her profession could provide. Here beside him, on this first morning of whatever they will be together, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she is capable of happiness, too.

Not that it will be easy, not that they won't require work, or have sadness or anger in their lives again, but now those things might be shared, and in sharing, their loads will be lighter.

He's spent four years making her life a little more fun; now she can make his brighter, too.

There have been too many tears between them; she wants to make him laugh. Just thinking of the sound, like bells ringing in her mind, brings a smile to her face.

Without thinking, she kisses him lightly on the lips and his eyes blink open, taking in her silly, sappy grin.

It must be a very different awakening from the last time, when he had to carry her, heavy and dark, through the nightmare and the tears and the pain.

He seems to take it in stride, though, her smiling kiss in the purple light of early morning. Without hesitating, he deepens it quickly, pushes for more. He always wants more. And now she will give it to him.

Amazingly, she wants more, too, in every way. And right now, she wants him—again.

But she wants him slowly, embers glowing after the flashing fire has burnt itself out.

She reaches for him, wants to discover all his body's secrets just as he's discovered hers. Wants him to sigh and gasp and be caught unawares.

He's beautiful, still half-shrouded in the shrinking shadows of the barely brightening bedroom. It's a quality she needs no light to see.

And so she loves him the best she can, telling him with her lips on his skin what her voice still cannot say.

She thinks he understands.

**# * # * # * #**

**One more chapter to go. I've been out of town, so I'm a bit late with this one. Please forgive me! I'll have the last one out before the premiere.**

**Joy, thank you for being "on call" for technical edits and Deb, thanks for checking in.**

**I appreciate every word of feedback, and I hope you will stick with this to the end.**

**Youtube playlist has been updated again.**

**youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**

**Kate**


	7. Chapter 7

**Nocturne Chapter Seven**

"**How do I show all the love**

**Inside my heart?**

**Well this is all new**

**And I'm feeling my way through the dark."**

"**Through the Dark" K. T. Tunstall & Martin Terefe, Eye to the Telescope, 2006, Virgin Records (US)**

In his dream, he and Kate had been making love on the beach—he had known it was a dream because of the lack of ill-placed sand or sunburned skin to tarnish the romance. He had been kissing her as she came down, sun setting, breeze blowing her hair to tickle his shoulders.

And then reality merges, melds, replaces, and he is actually kissing her—sheets replacing their beach blanket, the brilliance of her smile superseding the beams of the setting sun. Not yet fully awake, he is eager to recreate some of the other aspects of his dream, and she is complicit at first.

But now she's changed her tactics—has him pressed back into the mattress, noses her way down from lips to jaw to ear as her hands feather over every inch of him not covered by the sheets.

She makes it clear she wants him to be still—takes him by the wrist and gently lays his hands against the pillow when he tries to touch her. This must be a mission—the thoroughness of her exploration reminds him of her sweep of a crime scene—she leaves no inch undiscovered.

Kissing along his biceps, nibbling the curve of muscle, she hums in appreciation. Or maybe it's anticipation. He can't be sure since he hasn't really heard that particular noise before.

"Have I ever mentioned your arms make me completely crazy?"

His heart skips ahead. Kate is just so gorgeous. He knows he is nice-looking, but when something like that comes out of her mouth, he can't help feeling the little spark of pride. So of course he flexes. Subtly.

"Heh. No, not in so many words."

Not in any words. Well, other than the occasional "you're not so bad yourself."

She nips the round bulge of his deltoid and sort of growls… Yeah, definitely a growl… Wow…

The little giggle slips out, but she is undeterred by his mockery, makes her way across his collar bone and follows the outline of his other arm. When she reaches his wrist, her tongue darts out, tastes his pulse point, sends it fluttering. It's fascinating, watching her so focused on this task, like his body is a specimen to be studied, memorized.

Her cheek presses into his palm, and he sees a flash of pure, selfish enjoyment as her eyes close. Though he would love to pull her to his lips, share the silken slide, he stays still—behaves as she wordlessly requested.

Not lingering long over his hands, she returns to his chest, flattening her palms over his pecs, smoothing out and down, sliding the sheet lower and sending sparks south as his nipples react to the light contact. Her nose and chin follow his sternum down—warm breath trailing against his skin. Muscles jump when her tongue finds his belly button, flicks at it, wet and probing.

"Ticklish?" The harsh puff of the word from her warm mouth startles his now-moist skin.

Oh, but he is not answering that question. If she keeps this up, she'll find out soon enough.

Her downward path blatantly ignores his less-than-subtle erection, eliciting a sigh of relief tinged with disappointment. There is a good chance he would embarrass himself if she were to go that route right now.

A line of tiny kisses marches down his quad, veers around his knee to pick up again along the sharp edge of his shin bone. Her mouth is distracting him, or else he might have noticed where her fingers were headed, might have been able to prepare himself. But as it happens, the scratch of her nails along the sole of one foot finally does him in—he lets out a decidedly unmanly yelp as he flexes the tortured foot, draws his knee up to escape her reach.

But apparently she's not letting him get away that easily. Her other hand wraps around his as yet unmolested foot, and he catches her in a truly evil smile. She is _such_ a tease. Nice to know that applies to their love life, now, too.

"Huh. I don't suppose there's anywhere… else?"

As hard as he tries, he cannot suppress the girly scream or the titter of giddy laughter when she goes after his trapped appendage. Her laugh rings out then, full and bright, and he decides desperate times call for desperate measures.

Before she can mount a defense, he's after her, making a guess that the spots that make her twitch and writhe in one context will prompt a decidedly different sort of writhing now.

Going for ribs with one hand and under her arm with the other, he gets his answer almost immediately, in the form of a high-pitched "Castle!" as she ducks into a defensive, shrieking ball.

Bingo.

She has let go of his foot, which is a definite win, but in an instant she regains some composure and manages to go back on the offensive, flopping on top of him and poking haphazardly at his ribs.

If there is one spot that never fails to disable him in tickle wars with Alexis, it is that unassuming span of waist just beneath his lowest rib. And now, Kate has found it. Damn. He's doomed for all eternity.

Laughing so hard he ceases to make noise, he throws up his hands in surrender, tries to turn on his side to just _get her off of him already_—she has made her point after all—but instead he manages to roll half on top of her.

Her smile stops his heart.

It's the wide one, with all the teeth, and little pink glimpses of tongue peeking through, streaming out rays of sparkling joy, goofy and playful and free. And with her hair haloing her face against the dark sheets, she looks positively radiant.

This open, happy person laughing in his bed—this is who Kate can be with him. And miraculously, she's choosing to be. This is the Kate he knew deep in his heart must exist. And now that he's found her, he's never letting her go.

One eyebrow dips in question, and he realizes he has been staring down at her, maybe even slightly squishing her under his weight. In answer, he leans in, traces her smile with skimming grazes of his own lips.

"This is my favorite smile."

She laughs against him.

"You keep track of my smiles?"

Moving on to the ridge of her cheekbone, the arch of her brow, the dip of her nose, he figures he might as well come clean.

"If you want to have this discussion, let's do it tomorrow, because it could take hours. I filled a whole notebook just describing your facial expressions."

"You've got to be kidding me."

His answer brushes against the curve of her chin.

"Not kidding."

"Isn't that a little excessive, even for a muse?"

When he zeroes in on that spot that he thinks she likes, just below her left ear, he is rewarded with a sharp intake of air. It gives him the courage to finish his thought, thinking she might be distracted enough not to catch his meaning.

"Maybe, but not when she's also the only face I want to see when I open my eyes, and when I close them."

On down her neck, past her well-appreciated breasts and already-explored navel, he reaches the flare of her hip before she responds.

"In that case, I guess I'm gonna need one, too."

Pausing to let that wave of warmth swamp him, he looks up, finds her lips curving, eyes unabashedly bright, happy, ready to meet his. He doesn't push for more, just revels in that acknowledgment and continues tracing the crease between hip and thigh with his nose.

His hand slides down her thigh, nudges between her knees, and her legs part for him. Settling his body in between, he breathes out long and slow over her curls. Her breath is coming faster now as her hips press into the bed, back arching in anticipation.

Letting one fingertip glide along her folds, he feels the wetness pooled there, elicits a delighted gasp.

Slipping the digit inside her, he closes in on her center, tastes her arousal as he lays the flat of his tongue over her swollen clit. Her hips come off the bed at the contact, but he doesn't let up, just persists gently, eases her back down with a hand at the crease of her thigh.

Pressing deeper inside her and adding another finger, he finds her sweet spot and curls them against it, adding firm, rocking pressure. Her hips buck and she cries out his name, threads her fingers into his hair, clutching gently.

His own hips are moving in shameless counterpoint against the mattress, mimicking what he wants so badly to do next. But he wants this even more, wants her to fall apart under his ministrations, wants to know if she is as responsive with this as she has been with everything else.

Keeping a slow, methodical rhythm with mouth and hands, he takes her higher, hearing her staccato breathing escalate, feeling her hips move to meet him. Her knees begin to shake with the intensity, so he slides them wider, and she finally drops them to the bed, splaying open wide beneath his lips and tongue.

The shift pushes her up toward him, and he can feel her clench around his fingers as he flicks his tongue over her, circles around, presses down. She's almost vibrating with need, hips working in time with his fingers as they offer pressure and friction.

A desperate sound escapes her throat, and he knows she is close. Wrapping his lips around her, he begins to alternate suction with feather-light pressure, never letting up with his fingers inside her.

She breaks on his name, clenching tight around his fingers in rhythmic waves that he rides with her, uses to time his continued strokes, keeps her going until she finally tugs, tries to pull him up, whispers a tremulous: "Enough."

Complying, he tastes her on his lips and fingers as he climbs up beside her. Thinking she needs to recover, he pulls her against his side, but she slides a knee across his hips, straddles him, sinks down immediately, trapping him inside her tight, wet heat. The shock almost sends him over the edge, and he mentally curses his traitorous body. He wants her to come again while he's inside her, can't fathom going without her now that he knows that dark glory of union.

Long and lean and lying over him, her legs stretch out on either side of his, hips press tight. Finding her hand, he links fingers with her, presses their palms together, holds on. He's held her hand before, every time in awe of the depth of meaning involved in such a simple act—comfort, friendship, trust, a lifeline. But now, now it's love, private and quiet and theirs.

He doesn't move much, doesn't really need to considering how close he already is. But he does reach down, presses a palm against her tailbone, pulls her even harder against him. The friction seems to heighten everything for her—well, in his limited albeit enthusiastic experience thus far.

By her burrowing lips, now parted and warm on his neck, he can tell she approves. Praying for self-control, he sets the pace slow. But she speeds him, encourages him to meet her faster, harder with every stroke.

There is no way he can keep this up, and he wants her with him, so he tries to temper the rush.

A frustrated grunt sounds near his ear.

"Please?"

Oh, he's misinterpreted this whole thing. She's already there, just needs him to push her over. He ducks his head, catches her lips, kisses her long and deep and gives her what she needs.

She stiffens in his arms, clutches tight to his hand, finds his eyes, lets him see as she gives in to it. The look on her face and the feel of her body spur him on, and he's coming hard with her, helpless to stop or slow down once the freefall has begun. She is silent, just lets the sudden halt and flow of her breath trace the final peak and ebb. As he meets her, follows, he too releases his elation in the quiet of the brightening room.

They recover together, still linked and needy. When he thinks he's back inside his body, he untangles from her a bit, reaches over her for the glass on her bedside table, can't quite get it without climbing out from under, then over. He is simply not capable of the coordination required for this right now, but he's suddenly parched, thinks she must be, too.

By the time he snags the glass, offers it to her, then sips and returns it empty to the table, he's nearly tipped out of bed with the effort.

Her knowing smile greets him, and she lets out a little chuckle as she enjoys her effect on his system. She turns onto her stomach, props her head on her hands, twists a bit to look in his general direction. But he's all flipped around, head facing the opposite end of the bed, covers crumpled underneath him. He gives up on righting himself for the moment when he notices he has a perfect line of sight on her tattoo.

And he just can't resist—he leans in and kisses the words again.

He wants the original story behind them, knows there must be one, but for now, he's happy to have been part of that story for so long, to be part of it for the foreseeable future.

"I like that I get to help you find the truth."

The sun is just pinking the sky through a crack in the blinds, not yet bright enough to flood the room. Looking toward the window, she takes a breath, seems to be steeling herself.

"I quit the force."

Maybe he has misheard. There is absolutely no way she would…

"What?"

"After Ryan and Gates pulled me off the roof, she was trying to suspend me, and I just decided I didn't want to go back."

Tracing a finger lightly over the dark lines of unfamiliar characters, he keeps silent, consciously waits her out.

"That truth I thought I needed? The constant searching I thought I needed to feel whole? I don't need it anymore."

She rolls to face him.

"I've already found the only truth I need, and it's right here."

Love, or maybe the first light of dawn, is shining around her, framing her face in a faint rosy glow. He wants this. This is exactly what he's wanted for longer than he can remember. But what if she…

"But if you do want it, if you want to keep finding the answers, helping people, you don't have to give it up. I would never ask you to choose between loving your job and… me."

As soon as they are out, he knows his words will bring either catastrophe or liberation. He has put the words out into the ether, foisted them upon her, probably unwilling and unready. His stomach seizes at the thought of a denial now, after so much progress.

Her eyes shift from the random spot on his wall back to his. He can't read them. Maybe he doesn't want to. And then everything in her expression softens.

"I know you wouldn't. What I realized today is that there is no choice. Because I don't love my job."

But she does love him. Hope and fear war within his battered heart.

"You might change your mind."

He's trapped in limbo, waiting for sorrow or redemption in this answer, speaking of so much more than her police work. His eyes drop to the bed, but she reaches out, lays her hand over his hip, draws his attention back up again. The first rays of light break over the horizon, catch in the green of her eyes, startling, luminous, undimmed.

"About the job? Maybe someday. About you? Never."

**# * # * # * #**

**Happy Castle Monday, finally.**

**I have so enjoyed writing this story, and the feedback has been like nothing I've ever experienced. Thank you to every reviewer, follower, and reader for sticking with this. I just had an idea of what could happen between the night before and the morning after. Thank you for giving credence to my vision, and I hope you had fun.**

**Review that made my summer: **1822andallthat** for telling me this was the post-Always she would remember as the one that happened. Wow. Just amazing. Still can't quite wrap my brain around it. Thank you.**

**This is for all my friends in the Castle Fandom, but especially Angie, Deb, Alex, Liv, Nic, AC, Brooke, Laura, and of course Joy. You all nudged, encouraged, read, and/or threatened at all the right moments. But above all, you inspired me to be better than I was before. Thank you.**

**-Kate**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com**

**One last update to the playlist today: ****Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC**


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